


Melancholy As A Gib Cat

by ThereminVox



Category: Joker (2019)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-04
Updated: 2019-11-04
Packaged: 2021-01-23 03:43:05
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,930
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21313621
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThereminVox/pseuds/ThereminVox
Summary: In darkness, all cats are grey.
Relationships: Arthur Fleck/Original Character(s), Arthur Fleck/Original Female Character(s)
Kudos: 25





	Melancholy As A Gib Cat

* * *

  
  


One lone susurration of pending concern braids the air with tension.

“Sir…?”

The hour is a quarter past midnight. Clocks, sedated in circumduction. Stood before a hunched and forlorn figure, the nurse is toilworn. Yet again stricken by travails entailed by working an additional night shift, she sighs interminably, mechanically, at the returning absence of reply.

“Sir, I’m sorry, but I’m afraid we need you to vacate the premises. You’ve been lounging here since noon and have yet to provide any reasoning as to why you’re here.”

She’s confused by the jarring decibel of sudden laughter ejected from his throat. An abrupt propulsion of hilarity expectorates from the phlegm-encrusted pharynx, leaving her briefly disoriented. Did he really think this was… funny?

“Orderlies must not be so great at their job if 12 hours have passed and the ‘beggared’ man hasn’t been escorted to that slate of solid air you call an exit.”

Beyond the delicate tenor of his voice, oddly enticing in its fluctuation, the nurse pretends to lend a deaf ear to this retort, turning a blind eye to the lopsided grin that falters upon his painted features. Feigning nescience, her own facade of draconian necessity is adjusted accordingly, despite expressing unspoken agreement to her colleagues’ chronic apathy and incompetence.

Nevertheless, while Mondays had always been particularly hellsent in the realm of corporate captivity, this Stygian Monday seemed to be wrapped especially by the Dark Prince himself. The fact that it was the night of All Hallows’ Eve made her consider this disheveled man’s appearance as no mere coincidence. When he had first arrived on the scene, stumbling through the Exit as Entrance, mildly disoriented, she had failed to recognise precisely what had compelled her brows to arch in amusement. What source of strange attraction had magnetised the warm cocoa of her irises to that broad brush of porcelain white masking his face. 

Lest she forget how evocative his complexion illustrated. The outline of his form was unusually thin. Frighteningly so. As obscure compensation, he was dressed to the nines in a trio of lurid colours, both appealing yet tawdry to the mind’s eye. An edible arrangement of all primary colours, somehow satisfied in discordant harmony. A fitting description for her peculiar taste. An ode of testament to the otherwise concrete depiction of malnutrition evincing as aesthetically pleasing.

Initially, she had surmised the cartoonish outfit as being his choice of costume in adherence to that festive day of tricks and treats. Either that, or his profession happened to choreograph the motions of an actual clown. A number of employees had conceded in arriving to work cosplaying as their fulsome, fictional fancies. As such, any flux of odd characters roaming about was to be expected. Anthropomorphic pumpkins, animated skeletons and ragamuffin children included.

In any case, this curious visitor of afternoon and eventide had been given to staking a claim of extended residence to the reception area. When he wasn’t loafing about, casually, if not at self-conscious moments, modestly dancing about the floor, before an Argus-eyed crowd of perplexed patrons, his lissome limbs could be observed sprawled along the expanse of four chairs, lackadaisical and gay in demeanour, the peeling paint of a white ceiling providing him jocose entertainment for the lees of an unproductive evening.

He was a man of average height, to be sure, but his gangling structure gave the illusion of a taller stature. This eccentric coalition of artistic elements: tousled mop of head, saturated by acid green, highlighted punctuation of avian beak, which was further accented by the occasional creeping of a queried smile riddled with snaggleteeth. Summarily, a sort of misshapen handsomeness. She could only wonder if he had silently observed her as she did him with such unprecedented intensity.

“Do you need medication? Any health complications you want to identify?” Insouciant as the gait that waltzed him through in absurd performance, Arthur takes a neutral drag from the burning cylinder of his self-prescribed medicine, effectively substituting any verbalised answer.  
  
Perhaps this poor soul was just like the others.  
Solicitous, only by social mandate.  
  
It needn’t be repeated ad nauseam, but, indeed, he thinks. Indeed, humans were vapid, egocentric creatures; born and bred without the guidance of a tender leash. Without the scourge of humility as a redolent scar to sear inveterate marks of mediocrity.

“I’ll be more than happy to help.” Regardless of station or influence, the individual was little more than a fractured reflection, rife with lacerations, knifed and bludgeoned by nameless enemies. Bereaved and forgotten to tuneless threnodies.

“Unfortunately, at this late an hour, we can’t accept regular clients if the situation isn’t exigent. To endure the best possible assessment for your proposed infirmity, I recommend you return first thing tomorrow.”

The nameless anonymity of selfhood guided by severed fibers of the optic nerve. To heedless vision does refractive frame reveal a bruised and battered mosaic.

“What’s your name?” Arthur’s sharp intake of nicotine precedes the inquiry.

“Pardon?”

Arthur flits his weary gaze to the empty patch of fabric where a tag of nomination should be.

“I see you neglected to wear a name tag.” The humour in this sardonic intimation is diluted. Drowned to expiry by the egregore of predetermined comedy. Straightening ever so slightly in his seat, Arthur relaxes against the sterile, leather cushion of the hospital’s waiting room decor. It was unprofessional. “It’s a lovely costume.” Sincerely, it was. That blatant disregard to identity, presumptive though it was, could never have gone unnoticed, if not wholly unappreciated.

Before the innominate nurse can voice a rebuttal, Arthur accentuates his commanding tone by procuring a twin cigarette from the hard pack nestled in his left jacket pocket, swiftly and effortlessly lighting it with the old school dexterity exampled by that of a seasoned smoker, rich with the prescription of addicting tales from a turbulent history. It is this expression of confidence and appealing manner which has the nurse’s bosom palpitating with a sense of unrealised sexual awakening. A sense of sapid scent to the olfaction that was as fleeting in arrival as it was in departure. Yet, clinging in anticipation. Lingering in a recess of orphaned emotions.

“How are the patient and physician expected to establish a relationship built on trust if names aren’t exchanged?”

The nurse couldn’t decide whether or not to be annoyed at his inquiries. He was beginning to give off the vibe of a man victimised by premature senility, lonely and isolated. Struggling to connect with others due to both variables being broiled in longevity. By no means was the presumption intended as derogatory. Harmless scrutiny of the human condition was often easily misconstrued for criticism and pejorative nuance. However, as it stands, the nurse couldn’t eschew assertion in her isle of employment not advertising specialised treatment to the elderly. Moreover, it was plain to see that the man was nowhere near elderly, in spite of gaunt and debilitating appearance. Nor was he gallivanting in a glorified convalescent home.

“Firstly, I’m a nurse.” Securing her hands in her pockets, she can’t help mimicking the man’s neurotic actions, fiddling with the fraying threads of that orangish shade of red. His, admittedly nice, hands, if not fastened to his habit, were havering in exploration, gliding across sparse thighs to grasp and release at various areas, hovering above his face with gentle, reluctant pressure, memorising every pore and facial quirk, patently emotive in expression. If nothing else, his presence was innocuous, at best. Still… one could never be too safe.

“Secondly, you haven’t been registered as a patient.” Fingers start drumming with sentience against a contrast of more replete thighs, concealed from perusal by the deep ivory pockets of her lab coat. “After midnight, we have to start shifting focus to emergencies only.” If she were uncomfortable, it didn’t register in her voice. Unbeknownst to her, the gentleman sat before her possessed quite a flair for spatial awareness. This, alone, registers with dormant reflex. Only her body language conveys an increasing touch of unease to the brand of his indelible presence.

“Seeing as you aren’t in need of intensive care, I won’t be able to assist you properly unless you make a morning appointment.” Even whilst perusing the distance, there was something strangely intimidating about his gaze. Flecks of numbing pain sparkle across his sclera, contrary to the deadly evergreens of his remaining anatomy, pupils fixated on a full lunar radiance knocking at the entry, dilated in aspiration.

The following response of chest pangs are null in sympathy as the nurse suppresses an aberrant impulse to embrace the man who seems to have embodied the spirit of Atlas and Sisyphus in solidarity. Still, her empathy relents to portray as tone deaf.

“My apologies, but I really do have to ask you to lea-“

“Who are you to decide that?” Visible offense erases the scenic tranquility of his physiognomy. He was affected by Weltschmerz. Thoroughly distressed. Nervously anchoring his cancer stick to rouge-stained purse of lips. “That I’m ‘not in need of intensive care’?” Anxious knees begin to bounce of their own volition, gradually elevating intensity with each tapping force of urgency against polished tile. “Are injuries only examined as skin-deep to be considered treatable? What if I were bleeding internally with no apparent symptoms on the surface?”

Arthur frowns in contemplation, appearing struck by a gold mine of memory, extracting a weighted ore of recognition from the farrago of his musings.

“What did you mean by ‘we’?” Cocking his head like that of a cat bedevilled by the spirited tick of inquisitiveness, those piercing, ocean eyes of his flicker and fix in a way that makes the nurse delirious, for a brief spell. “Do you not exist alone?”

There was no ‘best course of action’ in this scenario. The man was clearly a clown. A delusional joker. In every sense of etymology. As those fabricated brows of crimson patiently await a verdict, she peers down at him, an owner, sapped of vim and vigour, siphoning their fuel reserve of energy to an eager pet, imbibed by a perpetual battery of endurance.

Decisive is she in her aim to play along. Any choice of dialogue that ultimately resulted in the man’s resolute departure was in direct correlation with her supporting role as the damsel in distress. There’s only one thing she wants to know before she ushers away this creepy, (cute) clown herself.

The instantaneous display of misplaced intimacy is not telling of an absent mind. Where this surge of impulse to touch strangers derived, she had no desire to ponder. Sans any ounce of shame, she had longed to get a feel for the enchanting canvas of his suit. And here, it is unclear as to whether Arthur or the nurse relaxes beneath this foreign caress. Of trust, a test, to anyone’s guess. An inviting hug of hands in silent greeting. A polarised streak of magnetism, mesmerising her idealistic heart to him. Therein, begs another question to the insatiate bird of passage. Was she merely attracted to the idea of him, as a means to evade capitalist oppression? Or, was it instead an insisting tug of fate? Kismet? Predestination? Searching earnestly, perhaps even desperately, for any signs of transparency shielded beneath that striking hue of sorrowed blue.

“I wonder…”

How she fantasised about running away to the freak show.  
The one that wasn’t christened ‘_society_’.

“Who’s the man _behind _the clown?”

Unconsciously, the filter slips from his ruddy mouth, reduced to embers with the spreading fervor of his crooked smile.

Maybe _he _could be her one-way ticket to dream town.


End file.
